


The Broken Places

by Jadesfire



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-30
Updated: 2010-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-08 12:41:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/75758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadesfire/pseuds/Jadesfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack's home.  Whether he likes it or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Broken Places

**Author's Note:**

> This is for [](http://taffimai.livejournal.com/profile)[**taffimai**](http://taffimai.livejournal.com/), who wanted to know what happened between the end of 'Last of the Time Lords' and the beginning of 'Kiss Kiss Bang Bang'. I offered her angst or crack. She asked for both.
> 
> Jack had other ideas.
> 
> Enormous thanks as ever to [](http://miss-zedem.livejournal.com/profile)[**miss_zedem**](http://miss-zedem.livejournal.com/) and [](http://crystalshard.livejournal.com/profile)[**crystalshard**](http://crystalshard.livejournal.com/) who don't let me get away with anything. slave drivers...

  
_Thought can make you; thought can break you._  
Swami Sukhabodhananda

  


"Honey, I'm ho-ome." Jack's voice echoed off the Hub walls, filling the otherwise silent space. "Huh."

Wasn't that typical? He'd been all ready for a tearful reunion, maybe with a couple of hugs, some hello kisses and yes, alright, probably a right hook from someone but still. Any reaction was better than none.

The place seemed cleaner, brighter than he remembered, and he supposed they'd had a lot of repairs to make after the rift had shaken it apart. They'd done a good job. Idly, he flicked through the files on Tosh's desk, not really reading anything, just skimming headings and names. It looked like they'd all been busy without him, and wasn't that good? No, it was great. He'd trained them well, they knew what they were doing and they were just, well, getting on with it. Great.

Returning the files to roughly the right places on the desk, Jack stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth for a moment. He could wait, of course, get settled back in, catch up on reports and all the horribly important stuff that he should have been doing. He should probably do that.

Ten minutes later, he was in the team's usual bar, drinking a glass of water and ignoring the half pint he'd felt obliged to order along with it. The barman had recognised him, but shook his head when he asked about the others.

"Haven't seen them in a while. Months, it must be."

Shrugging, Jack downed the water and gestured for another. It didn't count as drowning your sorrows if you didn't actually get drunk. He was vaguely aware of the bar around him, of the pre-dinner, post-lunch, damnit-I-need-a-drink-_now_ crowd, and wasn't quite blind enough to miss the looks he was getting. His disinterest didn't deter one of them from standing just a little too close as she ordered and nudging his elbow as she fumbled in her bag for her purse. The smile he gave her was pure reflex and a definite 'no'. One thing at a time.

He sipped his third glass of water more slowly, trying to work out what to do next. If he didn't want to go back to the Hub, which seemed pointless at the moment, what were his choices? Find the team? Of course. And say what? Sorry I walked out on you? Sorry you got sent on a wild goose chase halfway round the world? Sorry that I was too busy dying once a day and twice on Saturdays to be able to help you?

There were some things he hadn't let himself think, through all those days, weeks and months. He hadn't wondered what happened to his team. He hadn't thought about them dying, shot down by Toclaphane or executed by over-enthusiastic guards. To give room to any of those thoughts would have been to let the Master win, and Jack had been sick of being a pawn in the relentless tussle between the Time Lords. If he couldn't fight back, he could at least have the satisfaction of spoiling the lunatic's fun.

Not that the lunatic had noticed. Or cared. Even so, Jack had needed to find his victories where he could get them.

Idly, he dipped a finger into his glass and ran it round the rim, trying to hear if it was making a sound. Someone had turned the music down, and he could just make out the faint noise, feel the throb under his finger. It was nothing like the thrum of engines under his feet, and the warmth of the bar was nothing like the heat of the boiler room, but he stopped quickly all the same, forcing himself to breathe and concentrate. Damn, he hadn't expected that. At his graduation ball, he'd played the B'larian national anthem on eight glasses of synth-Martini, and now he couldn't even carry out a simple party trick? Shaking his head, he wiped his hand on his trousers, trying to give himself a break. There wasn't going to be anything that didn't remind him of that time, for a while at least, and he was going to have to get past the reflex reaction at some point. Just not right now.

When he looked up again, the barman had turned on the TV and was watching the subtitles scroll across the news channel. Life, it seemed, really did go on, and there were the usual stories about politics, celebrities and which part of people's diets would give them cancer or cure cancer or whatever. Same old same old.

His attention had drifted when the sound of the news presenter's voice suddenly burst into life. The barman had taken it off mute, and was watching with obvious interest.

_"The interim Leader of the House confirmed that the investigation into the deaths of both his predecessor and the American president was continuing, despite the resignation of the chairman. He assured Parliament that there were several suitable candidates for the post, and that there would be a statement later in the day."_

"It's getting ridiculous, isn't it?" the barman asked, and Jack gave him a blank look. Taking that for an answer, the other man went on, "I mean, you'd think it'd be pretty simple. There's a list of everyone who was there, ask them what happened."

"Simple," Jack repeated, his voice sounding dead to his own ears.

"Right. I mean, they were there, weren't they? They saw it. It's only a couple of weeks ago, they can't have- What the- How the hell did you do that? Jackie, get me a cloth! A clean one."

Jack looked down, half-surprised to see the bar covered in water. As he watched, two bright red drops fell from his hand, the colour swirling and spreading. It was almost pretty.

"…no idea. I mean, the glass must have had a flaw in it or something. You can't just break them by squeezing."

"Excuse me." His hand didn't hurt yet, but it was going to, any minute. He needed to get out before he attracted too much attention or someone made an over-enthusiastic call to the emergency services.

"You can't just walk out of here like that," the barman protested, throwing a cloth for Jack to wrap around his hand. "You're going to need stitches."

"I'm fine," Jack said, swinging his coat off the back of his chair with his good hand, and draping it over his injured one. "Really. My friend's a doctor. He'll see me right."

Funny, Jack realised as he strode quickly out of the bar, cradling his arm against his chest, the first doctor he'd thought of had been Owen. That should probably surprise him more than it did. He just hoped they were back in the Hub by now.

He must have been in the bar longer than he'd realised, because it was dark as he made his way across the Plass. This time, he felt a little conspicuous standing on the paving slab lift, but it was further to the tourist office, and he didn't want to get too much blood on his coat. His hand didn't hurt yet.

The Hub was still empty as he descended, and Jack stamped hard on his irritation. They had no way of knowing he was coming back, and certainly no way of knowing that he was going to need a hand. Despite himself, he grinned. He always said that he could do more with one hand than most people could with two. Time to prove it.

It took a few minutes of groping around in drawers and cursing Owen's filing system to find what he was looking for. Carefully, he laid out a clean cloth on the autopsy table, and took the tweezers from the instrument tray. He suspected that this was when it was going to start to hurt.

He was sweating hard by the time he got the last piece of glass out of his hand, rinsing his palm with distilled water and holding it up to the light to check. Even the smallest speck would be seriously uncomfortable in a few minutes, and he'd rather not have to cut it out again. Once he was satisfied, he put his hand flat on the table, palm upwards, and reached for the little machine that he rarely let Owen use. Dermal regeneration wouldn't technically be invented for a couple of centuries yet, so they'd have to wait a while for new batteries if this thing ran out, but Jack figured he'd earned a little luxury. Besides, it was this or shoot himself in the head and force it to heal that way.

The regenerator made his nerves tingle, and didn't do much for the pain. He'd need something for that if he was going to pick anything up over the next few days. Still, he considered as he closed the last cut, good as new. No one would ever know.

No one would ever know. Good as new, same as ever.

Shaking himself, he put everything away again, careful to make sure it was in exactly the right place. Then he headed into his office and down to his quarters for a new shirt. Everything was where he'd left it, even the book he'd left on the chair, pages splayed and curling. He couldn't quite remember what it was about, now. It had been too long.

In his bedroom, all his clothes were in the wardrobe and drawers, neatly folded or hanging in tidy rows. Jack was orderly, in his own way, but he couldn't remember every being this regimented about it. Someone else had done this. Probably the same someone who had made sure there wasn't a speck of dust on any of the surfaces and who had made the bed with creases so sharp Jack could cut himself all over again.

He chose a clean shirt, and dressed carefully, his hand still throbbing more than a little. As he struggled with the buttons, he made a mental list.

Painkillers.

Phone.

Team.

There was no point thinking further than that. They'd either gone home for the night, or they were on a case. If it was the former, then he'd be here in the morning for them. If it was the latter, well, he was still technically in charge, wasn't he? Time to get back in the field.

He paused on his way back to the Hub, looking around the too-tidy living space. He didn't have much, mostly books and records, but it felt too pristine, too precise. Going over to the bookshelves, he began moving them around, pulling some out and shifting others, rearranging them so that their spines weren't lined up so exactly, and dropping a few on the floor.

The record cabinet was next, looking as though it had never been touched. Jack shuffled some of the LPs and 45s around, pulled others out of their sleeves, left a couple on top of the player that he'd had for decades. That was more like it.

At the drinks cabinet, he stopped again, debating the merits of a stiff whisky as a paracetamol substitute. Probably best not to, but he opened the doors anyway, fishing out a bottle and a glass, wanting to feel like he lived here again. The way the rooms had been arranged, it was as though he was walking through a museum. Or a shrine. And damnit, he wasn't dead yet.

It was the same surge of futile rage that had lead him to break his wrists twice and dislocate his shoulders more times than he could count. Spinning round, Jack hit the side of the bookcase hard, with his good hand. It shook, a few of the smaller volumes shifting out of place, but didn't fall until he got a better grip on it with both hands, toppling it to the floor. Books spilled out, pages fluttering and turning, filling the small space as though he'd let in a flock of small, silent birds. He kicked at the bookcase, the wood making a satisfying splintering sound.

Turning again, he caught the corner of the drinks cabinet, tipping it so that bottles fell and smashed, covering the floor with liquid and shards of glass. The cabinet itself was made of heavy wood and it took more effort to push it all the way over. Jack was fairly strong, even when he wasn't blind with fury, but his anger made the cabinet feel like plywood. He'd had enough of it all, of the relentless days that started with pain and ended with being dragged back to life. The yelling and struggling and waiting and all for nothing.

The cabinet hit the ground with a crunch, sending ripples though the spreading puddle of glass and alcohol. It felt so good to have something like this, something where his actions had consequences, where there was no reset button. For a wonderful, insane moment he thought about not stopping down here, but ripping through the Hub in the same way. This was something he could _do_.

He clenched his fists hard enough to make him gasp with pain, and the moment of searing agony brought at least some sanity back with it. Carefully, he straightened out his fingers, wincing as he flexed them. He really needed that painkiller. He probably could have used a drink as well, but it was a bit late for that. Shaking his head, he sank into the chair, pulling the book out from under him and dropping it onto the coffee table. It wasn't a great surprise to find that he was laughing, and he forced himself to calm down before it could turn to hysterics. He'd walked that path too many times.

With great care, he pushed himself upright again, retrieved his coat from where he'd dropped it, and headed for the ladder. His hands were still shaking as he put them on the rungs and he frowned. He'd need to get that sorted before he saw the team. And he wasn't letting Ianto or anyone else down here tonight, whatever he might have dreamt about through so many months of solitude. There were some things he wasn't ready to talk about yet. It was time to get back to his life. Time to be Captain Jack Harkness.

Half an hour later, he had two of the good painkillers, his mobile and the latest case file that the team had been working on. Apparently one thing Gwen had learnt from the police was how to do the paperwork, because everything was exactly where it should have been. He scanned some of the reports, putting the Himalaya one aside for later, and read a few more in detail. They were doing well without him, it seemed.

Going to Tosh's terminal, he brought up the GPS, CCTV and tracking programmes, pinging their mobiles and getting a location back. Following the signal, he raised an eyebrow. Whoever was driving – and he'd bet the last bullet in his gun that it was Owen – seemed to want to get points on his licence tonight. Jack grinned. He'd taught them well.

Checking his gun quickly, he downloaded the programme to a PDA from Tosh's supply and headed over to the stairs. His hands had stopped shaking, and his head felt clear again. It wasn't over, of course, not nearly; even Jack wasn't enough of a hopeless optimist to think that. Still, he could think straight, see straight and shoot straight.

He was back.

* * *

 

_If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places._  
Ernest Hemingway, _A Farewell To Arms_


End file.
